The Second Grief: When You Leave the Church, And Lose the People
And why so many have abandoned the steeple.
Most people think the hardest part of leaving a high-control religious systems is losing belief. Often characterized by the late-night wrestling with theology, the unraveling of everything you thought was true.
And that is hard.
But there’s another grief that cuts even deeper: losing your social world.
It’s the sudden silence on your phone.
The empty Wednesday nights that used to be small group.
Walking through the grocery store and wondering if you’ll see someone you know—and realizing both seeing them and not seeing them hurt.
This is the second grief: the ache of disconnection that hits when the church wasn’t just where you “went to church”—it was your whole life.
When You Leave
As Marlene Winell writes in Leaving the Fold, these communities are often “tightly knit groups with a distinct separatist subculture.” When you step outside, you’re not just leaving a building—you’re leaving the fold.
And the loneliness can be staggering.
I remember that feeling vividly. I was driving through Southern California, trying to find the courage to leave a church that had stopped being life-giving. The isolation was immense. It felt like this one organization held my entire world—and walking away felt like walking into nothing.
Then I saw a hillside. Sunlit, sprawling, ancient. It seemed to care about me and the religiously abusive systems so many of us were and are caught in.
And a thought landed in my spirit, quiet and steady: The world is bigger than this church.
That moment gave me a glimmer of hope against the exclusivity, the fear, the false sense of “us versus them.” I could see a life for myself beyond.
That’s where the healing began.
Leaving is an act of reclaiming your agency and honoring your dignity.
But the system trains you not to. You’re told “self help” is a sin, that you must “die to yourself” for the sake of belonging.
So when you finally choose yourself, you carry guilt for doing what was necessary to survive.
And then comes the question: What does community look like now?
It’s quieter. Simpler. You find it in the most unexpected places.
Going to Trout Church Instead
Last Sunday, I went to what I jokingly call “trout church.” I went to one of my favorite fishing spots. Another angler stopped to chat—not about theology, but about flies and tactics and the shared peace of being alive in the same place.
That’s community now. It’s the hikers who smile on the trail, strangers who pause together at a sunset, spotting rainbows on the horizon and texting them to a friend who loves them. These moments don’t need matching doctrine to mean something.
Marlene Winell describes community as “Cohesive while open and connected to the wider world.” That’s what this feels like. Rooted in shared humanity, not shared dogma.
If you’re feeling the sting of that second grief, please know: you are NOT broken.
Never were. Never Are.
You’re not failing.
The pain you feel is proof of how deeply you once belonged.
It’s okay to mourn what was, even as you start to glimpse what could be.
The world is bigger than the box you were in. And it’s full of people, beauty, and unexpected connections waiting for you.
You can still be human together—even if it’s just two people talking to trout.
A Note for Those Who’ve Abandoned the Steeple
If you’ve stepped away from the building, the system, or the title that once defined your faith, you haven’t lost your soul. That isn’t something that is even possible. You have, however, outgrown a container that could no longer hold your beautiful becoming.
You didn’t “fall away” or “backslide.” You followed truth, tenderness, and integrity back to yourself.
You’re not faithless; you’re seeing and leaning into what is real and healing and hopeful for you.
Leaving the steeple doesn’t make you less spiritual. It means you’ve chosen honesty over belonging, love over loyalty to harm.
And that choice, however lonely it feels right now, is important.
You are still held by the same sky, the same earth, the same breath, the same pulse of life that has always known your name.
A Gentle Practice for Reconnection
If it feels safe for you, take a slow, steady breath.
Feel your feet on the ground or the surface that’s holding you.
Gently let your body know it’s safe enough to be right here, right now.
You might place a hand over your chest or rest it somewhere that feels comforting. Notice what sensations or emotions are present—no need to fix or analyze. Just acknowledge what’s here.
Now, gently bring to mind the possibility of new community. Not specific faces or places. Just the idea of being met with kindness, of belonging somewhere that honors your whole self.
If your body says “no” or “not yet,” that’s completely okay. You can stop at any point. Consent matters here, too.
If it feels available, you might whisper an intention:
May I find people who see me clearly.
May I be met with safety and warmth.
May I stay open to the quiet ways connection finds me.
Take one more breath. Let it be enough for now.
A Place for This Conversation
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This is an amazing reflection of my own heart of grief but from a volunteer in a church and among people that I trusted and believed were Christ- Like. I grieved my husband the year before but in many ways this was a grief like no other- to make a decision that would tear apart my life and community . The dishonor and disrespect of not only women but people who were were exemplifying what Jesus taught was at the center and in the heart of my decision to leave this church of almost 20 years .
I feel you🙏